


Chance Met on the Road

by theimperialbogmonster (songs_of_the_moon)



Series: How Bold [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking, Eskel and Jaskier bond over Geralt being a dumbass, Gen, Geralt suffers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songs_of_the_moon/pseuds/theimperialbogmonster
Summary: Eskel finally meets Geralt’s bard.
Series: How Bold [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1881994
Comments: 21
Kudos: 471





	Chance Met on the Road

A witcher had been through recently. Eskel breathed deeply, sorting through the tavern’s mostly-unpleasant scents. Whoever it was, he had been gone long enough that Eskel couldn’t identify him. 

Another witcher’s fading scent meant there probably wouldn’t be any work for him in this town, but he was hungry, and tired, and his arse was sore from riding. He had enough coin for a meal and a bed, at least, and then he could ride on come first light. 

There was a bard playing, but Eskel payed him no more attention than he did anyone else in the tavern. He made his way to the bar, chatted briefly with the nervous barkeeper, then found a corner where he could eat without putting his back to the entrance or any part of the crowd. 

It gave him a good view of the bard, unfortunately. The man pranced like a show pony and dressed like a peacock. He even had a fucking feather in his hat. His singing was tolerable, at least, as was his playing. 

The man finished his song with a flourish that had his audience cheering and hooting. “Thank you, lovelies, thank you!” The bard grinned, eyes dancing over the room. “Tonight, it seems we have a special guest!” Eskel’s eyes weren’t playing tricks on him—couldn’t, without magic or an unfortunate potion combination—but there was no way the bard had met his gaze when he’d said that. Surely not. 

And then the troubadour started his next song. 

That damn _song,_ about Geralt and elves and a devil. Eskel had heard it up and down the continent, had listened to Geralt bitching about it with something perilously close to fondness in his voice. 

_It’s him. Geralt’s bard. His fucking_ barker. 

Eskel ate slowly. The bard had clearly recognized him as a witcher, and Eskel was curious to see if he’d approach Eskel as casually as he had Geralt some years before. (And dragging _that_ story out of Geralt had been a laugh, the first winter after “Toss a Coin” had started making the rounds.) 

The bard finished the song and began making his way around the room, accepting coin and compliments. Eskel waited, and it occurred to him that for all he knew about the man from Geralt’s grumbling, he still didn’t know his name. 

“Fancy another pint, Eskel?”

Eskel nearly jumped. There was the bard, one hand on his hip, grinning and flushed. 

“No reason to look so spooked! I can’t imagine there are many witchers fitting your description, and Geralt _has_ talked about you. Insofar as he talks about anything, of course.” The bard tipped his head to the side and studied Eskel for a long moment. “You’ve no idea who I am, do you?”

“You’re Geralt’s bard,” Eskel said before he could think better of it. 

“ _Geralt’s bard?”_ The man drew back, dramatically offended; Eskel might even have believed it, if he couldn’t smell the amusement. “I’ll have you know that I’m far more than that. You, my friend, have just had the honor of meeting the famous poet and troubadour Jaskier, teller of tales and singer of songs. And,” he winked, “if you’re very lucky, some of those songs might just be about you. So, another pint to loosen the tongue, give me some fodder for my next ballad?”

That was where the witcher smell was coming from, Eskel realized, this brightly-dressed, unassuming human, who had been close enough to Geralt for long enough that Geralt’s scent lingered even when Geralt himself was gone. “Where’s Geralt?”

The bard—Jaskier—laughed. “Let me buy you some ale and I’ll tell you all about it.”

* * *

Jaskier came back with a pitcher and a tankard, wending through the crowd like a creek down a stony mountainside. 

“Geralt is on a hunt,” he said without preamble, topping off Eskel’s tankard before filling his own. “He said he’d be back by tomorrow morning, and if he hasn’t shown up by tomorrow afternoon, I have every intention of dragging him out of that atrocious crypt myself.”

Eskel laughed. “I’d like to see you try to drag a witcher anywhere.”

Another man likely would have been offended, but Jaskier chuckled. “He’s much more tractable when he’s coming down from one of his awful potions and delirious with blood loss.”

“He’s mellowed with age, then.” Eskel rolled up a sleeve to show Jaskier a scar on his forearm. “You know what he did last time I tried to patch him up? The ungrateful fucker _bit_ me.”

Jaskier, bizarrely, seemed delighted. “Oh, yes, he’s snapped at me too. Did he tell you about the last time I had to drag him to Triss before he bled out in some no-name forest?”

Triss—assuming Jaskier meant Triss Merigold the enchantress, and not some other woman by the same name—had come up in a few of Geralt’s reluctant discussions about life on the Path, but the story was unfamiliar. “He didn’t.”

“Of course not. Heaven forbid he ever admit a weakness.” Jaskier rolled his eyes, but the gesture had the same soft edges as Geralt’s complaining about the stubborn bard who had taken to following him. “Some awful disease had swept the town almost fifty years ago, and its unlucky victims had been tossed into a mass grave and buried shallowly. About five years ago, some jealous arsehole had taken it upon himself to kill the maid he fancied but who had no eyes for him. He tossed her in the charnel pit without a second thought, but her father was friends with a magician. Five years and a few dozen deaths later, the town began asking for a witcher. I’m sure you can guess how the story goes from there.”

Eskel could. Ghouls that rose from unjust deaths were always the hardest to deal with. And Eskel knew Geralt’s soft heart, no matter how much the other witcher tried to hide it. “What happened to the others? The mage, the jealous lover, all that?”

“We never looked for the mage, but that whoreson who thought he could use a tragedy to hide his wrongdoing will never make that mistake again.” Jaskier smiled over the rim of his tankard, and for the first time Eskel caught a glimpse of what Geralt saw in the bard, frippery be damned. 

“But what made the contract so dangerous?”

“It wasn’t just that poor girl searching for revenge. Every skeleton in that grave rose once Geralt got near enough.”

That made a horrible kind of sense. “That mage was careless,” Eskel said, instead of the chorus of, _Damnit, Geralt, you should have known better,_ running through his head. 

Jaskier chuckled. “Triss said the same thing, once Geralt was stable. You know, she disappeared for two days after that, and I haven’t heard anything about that sorcerer since? That may not mean much to you, but we bards keep our ears to the doors of the powerful, lest we insult or compliment the wrong nobleman in the wrong town. And I haven’t heard a word from or about Mads since Triss so kindly payed him a visit.” Jaskier adjusted his lute so it sat comfortably in his lap. He strummed it once, expression distant. “I’m sure there’s a rousing tale, there, something about the consequences of using one’s power carelessly, but I’m not sure if I could bear to hear it.” He strummed again. “Better to leave the details to the imagination, I suppose.”

Eskel leaned back in his chair and studied Jaskier. At length, he said, “I can’t imagine Geralt has told you about the time he fell off a mountain when we were boys.”

Jaskier’s face brightened. “Of course not, but I’m dying to hear it.”

* * *

Jaskier woke to the sound of Geralt swearing and the worst hangover he’d had in a while. He breathed slowly and took stock of himself. He was on the bed, mostly, but sideways, with his legs hanging off the edge. He was dressed, and apparently he had only managed to get off one boot before passing out. It was leaning against his foot. 

“ _Fuck,”_ someone groaned. It took Jaskier a long, painful moment to place the new voice. 

_Eskel,_ he remembered fuzzily. The witcher he had met last night. Geralt’s brother-in-arms. 

“Two days,” Geralt growled. “I leave you alone for _two days.”_

“Close the fucking shutters, you heartless bastard.” It sounded like Eskel was lying on the floor. 

Jaskier slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. “Good morning, love,” and _shit,_ his voice sounded terrible. “I take it you cleared out that awful little nest of beasties?” Every word out of his mouth made his temples throb, but he couldn’t seem to shut up. 

Geralt looked slowly from Jaskier to Eskel, then closed his eyes with a pained expression. “Two days,” he muttered, before striding across the room and closing the shutters. 

Eskel made a relieved sound. 

Jaskier sat up fully, ignoring how the movement made his body ache and his stomach churn. “You,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on Geralt’s profile. “You fell off a mountain.”

From the floor, Eskel laughed, gagged, and then whined piteously. 

Geralt stormed out, cursing under his breath. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> In his introduction in the books, Dandelion is wearing a heron feather in his hat. Make of that mental image what you will.


End file.
